Your Scars and Mine
by mylia11
Summary: After learning that John is temporarily disabled, everyone tries to help him and Sherlock cope, as the two help each other. But, in between the healing, a dangerous case comes, and they must try and survive with and without the other. Sequel to The Voices.
1. Chapter 1

**Thank you everyone for the positive response to _The Voices_! If you haven't read it, please do so, because this takes place almost immediately after, and I put a lot of angst into that story to make this one actually happen. Now, without further ado...**

* * *

Sherlock blamed himself for John's condition, though he had no valid reason to. But he _had_ started the chain reaction of events to cause John to be at that particular location when the car had hit him; if only he did not require milk at that precise moment, John wouldn't have been in a coma. He wouldn't have been blinded.

So Sherlock blamed himself, because he had found a valid reason to do so.

Two days after John awoke and was rushed to surgery, Sherlock had arranged a meeting with the new doctor in charge of his care, Dr. Zilo. Invited as well were Lestrade and Mycroft, as Mrs. Hudson was busy out of town and Harriet was back in Dublin.

"First things first: Doctor Watson will eventually be fine," she announced, after everyone had arranged themselves around the small office. "The problem is, we don't now when."

"Would you care to elaborate?" Mycroft asked.

"His retinas were damaged during the accident, causing the blindness. While we did repair them, they are extremely weak and may not fully heal immediately. During these troubling times, I ask that you all please help him through. I can assure you that he will regain his vision. Mr. Holmes," she gestured to Sherlock, "you are his flatmate, are you not?"

He nodded. "When are we able to discharge him?"

"Today, actually. We've run all of our tests, though he will have to come in for check-ups- I'll give you the sheet, as well as some other necessary items. He'll need special glasses when he goes outside during sunlight hours and into brightly lit areas; special fluorescent light bulbs inside the house to ease his sight; vitamins and other medicine, and that's about it."

After handing the bag to Sherlock, she escorted them to a ward and left them to take John. Sherlock could feel his heart pounding in his chest (an unusual feeling he doesn't quite _want_ to delete, though it hurts) as he stood in front of the door. John was just beyond the door. All it required was just a little push...

"Right," said Lestrade suddenly, "we don't want to unnerve John by entering all at one. I'll go in first, talk a bit, then Mycroft, then you Sherlock. And all three of us will help John out and into the car downstairs. From there, you'll have to take care of him, alright Sherlock?"

He nodded absently. Sighing, Lestrade walked up to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and glared into his eyes. "Sherlock," he said in a commanding voice, "John will be staying with _you_. _You_ have to help him during this time; I know he won't accept it and he'll pretend he's fine, but you _need _to help him. Now, _do you understand_?"

The words weren't fully comprehended by Sherlock when he nodded to the DI, who in return sighed again and opened the door. As the seconds crept by, different scenarios ran through Sherlock's mind, each more horrific and depressing than the last. Only when a grimacing Lestrade exited and a composed Mycroft entered did Sherlock loose his composure and voice his concerns.

"Does- does John- does he remember?"

Lestrade smiled at him. "He congratulated me on meeting Mycroft, so I think he's good."

The collective sigh of relief went unnoticed by both parties.

* * *

Finally, Mycroft exited and the pounding returned as Sherlock went up to the door and inside.

The room was completely empty, save the bed and the light bulb. John was sitting down, facing away from Sherlock, but the detective noticed how his ears perked up at the sound of his footsteps. For a few moments, there was only silence, then- "Sherlock?"

"John?" he replied, walking closer, as the man in question tentatively stood up, cane in hand, and turned towards his friend.

John Watson, considering his situation, never looked better. He still had the same solider's posture, the same mundane yet unique smile, the same beautiful blue eyes though they had lost their focus. Nonetheless, John looked the same as before.

Just looking at him, Sherlock could feel himself beginning to smile. "Hello, John."

"Sherlock. I- I'm- oh god Sherlock, just come here, please?"

Confused, Sherlock closed the gap between them. _Why was John crying? Was John hurting? Why? Did he need a nurse or-_

But all thoughts were driven out of his head when John pulled him into a tight embrace. Tears soaked into the Belstaff coat as John clung on to it, shaking. Uncertain of what to do, Sherlock gently patted John's back with slight stokes. Pressing closer to his head, Sherlock inhaled the soft scent of John, finding something watery on his face as well.

"I missed you Sherlock," John spoke. "From the moment I woke up I wanted to do this. It's just this bloody blindness got in the way."

"Things do tend to get in the way, do they not?" Sherlock replied, still smiling, as John slowly moved away. "We are allowed to discharge you today, so I would request that you put these glasses on, and we will leave as soon as possible."

John nodded, grabbing his cane and placing the dark glasses over his eyes. "Right, I'm ready to go home."

* * *

Outside, after Mycroft and Lestrade escorted them to the lower levels and into the cab before leaving for what they both said was 'a meeting with a diplomat form Zimbabwe' and 'debriefing for a case' respectively, but Sherlock saw through their excuses and knew that they were going on a date. For one thing, Mycroft hated Zimbabwe and Lestrade would've consulted him had there been an authentic case.

But he raised no objections and was positively gleeful about sitting next to John and being with John and smelling John and hugging John and healing John and anything else he could think of. It was like a great experiment.

The cab ride was relatively quiet, with John staring into nowhere, Sherlock staring at John and both of them holding hands. Suddenly, John spoke, catching Sherlock off-guard.

"Do you really love me?"

* * *

**Happy Holidays! Sorry, but don't expect the next one until after New Years. But it will be riddled with love and angst and whatever other bloody shit I can find. So good luck!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Be glad all I have is free time right now. Otherwise, this chapter would never have come out on time. And for those of you anxiously awaiting the case (I know I am), it's coming soon. Beware the angst and gore. Oh god, now _I _can't wait to write about it. Oh well, enjoy.**

* * *

Sherlock was confused by John's question. Why did John think he did not love him? Surely the affectionate hug and hand-holding must have tipped him off. John wasn't _that_ thick.

"John, I most certainly do love you. There is not a doubt in my mind. Why is there one in yours?" Even as the question left his mouth, Sherlock began dreading the answer.

His flatmate heaved a sigh. "It's just that, Sherlock, I've never known you to be the type to love anyone- except Irene Adler, but that was just intellectual flirting. I just think that this might be a phase you're going through because you might have lost me. I don't want to be abandoned because you've gotten over it, especially while I'm like this. So, before you do anything, just make sure you really _want_ to do this, alright?"

"Of course John," Sherlock said aloud, while in actuality he was furrowing his brow. Now he had to prove to John that he loved him, when it seemed to be the most obvious thing in the world. He would never be finished understanding the mystery that was John Watson. Then again, he liked the fact that John surprised him at every turn.

After some silence, Sherlock asked, "John, do _you_ love me?"

John turned in his direction and smiled his usual Sherlock-you-are-a-fantastic-idiot smile. "I do. And that's why I want to be sure that you feel the same way."

Sherlock tighten his grip on John's hand, and made a silent promise to ease John's way into regaining his sight, so that way he would truly know the depth of Sherlock's love for him.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was back at the flat when they arrived, and fondled with John as Sherlock ran up to the flat, quickly changing all the light bulbs. When he returned downstairs, he discovered how an amazing an actress Mrs. Hudson really was. As she was gently shaking and crying over the fact that John could not see, her voice remained level as she comforted him and offered to make food and clean around.

"I know Sherlock's not going to do it and since you need your rest, I wouldn't mid just this once," she said, drying her eyes as John looked in her direction being blissfully unaware.

Before he could restrain himself, Sherlock blurted out, "I'll do it."

John and Mrs. Hudson turned towards him, confused. "The cleaning and the cooking," he elaborated. "I will do it."

"Nonsense, dear. You can't even pick up after yourself," Mrs. Hudson protested.

"I can, but chose not to. Now I choose to do so. Come along John; you need your rest. I will escort you up the stairs."

Rising from his chair, John huffed, "I think I can get up the bloody stairs myself, Sherlock. You go on ahead and I'll catch up."

Sherlock frowned. Doctors- especially _army _doctors- made the worst patients. But he knew not to underestimate John's stubbornness and went on without him. Upstairs, he rushed to his room, clearing out the assortment of papers and scraps off the bed. It was logical to assume that John would be staying in his room, for it would be unwise for him to have to cross a staircase every day just to use the bathroom which was conveniently located right net to his own room.

Also, if John slowly became accustomed to sleeping in Sherlock's bed, he may decide to do so even when his eyesight returns. The thought of having John near him, to be able to touch him, hold him in the darkness; it made Sherlock feel warm inside. So as quickly as he could, he tidied the room.

A few minutes later, John found himself safely up the stairs and into the awaiting arms of Sherlock, who quickly ushered off his coat. "Sherlock I can do it myself, thanks."

"You must be tired John," Sherlock replied, ignoring his friend. "I'll make tea."

"I'm not tired!" he called out, moving his cane ahead of him as he made his way to his favorite armchair. "And since when do you make tea?"

Sherlock did not reply, for he knew John would immediately disapprove of his plan. He watched as John leaned into his seat, falling back into a slight familiarity. It was when he tried to reach the table for his laptop that he was rushed back to reality. Back into the darkness.

As if on queue, the tea was done.

He brought a small cup to John, guiding his hand to the handle, which displeased John further. "Sherlock, I could have grabbed it my self. I don't need your help for-" At that moment, John's hand slipped, causing the tea to spill onto the floor. "Oh shit. Just ruined my point _and _the carpet."

He let out a forced laugh and bent down to grab the fallen cup, but Sherlock had already picked it up and handed John his own. "It's alright John. It wasn't your fault. It could have happened to anyone with your sense of balance."

Sighing, John carefully placed the cup on the table and slowly got up. "I change my mid; I'm going to bed."

Quickly, his flatmate grabbed him from behind, causing him to jerk and drop his cane. "What the bloody hell are you doing Sherlock?"

"You are sleeping in my room for the time being John. I can not have you going up and down the stairs just to use the restroom. No, you must stay here."

"God, fine. But where will you sleep?"

"On the rare occasion that I do, it will be beside you."

"Am I never going to have any privacy ever again?" John laughed. "Alright, fine. We'll make this work somehow."

And just like that, operation Heal/Seduce John went into motion.

* * *

**Alright. I plan that there will be 10-11 chapters, plus an epilogue. Now please excuse me as I write fluffy angst.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm not sure whether to rate this M or not, so I did it anyway. Nothing very graphic though. Just a bath. Well, I suppose I plan graphic crime scene depictions, so this was a good idea.**

* * *

Week one of John's blindness and Sherlock's plan was, suffice to say, not the smoothest trip.

The biggest problem was the fact that John would not accept any help from Sherlock whatsoever; not even if he was in dire need of it. The problem was apparent to Sherlock the moment John had returned home. So he made it his first priority to remedy this.

It began in the morning as soon as he had awoken. He was surprised at himself for falling asleep, but it _had _been John's fault, for he refused to do so himself until Sherlock laid next to him. But it had not been an entire waste of time; he got to see John slowly drift off beside him. A sight which Sherlock had found quite welcoming and enjoying.

In fact, he may not have awoken when he did if he had not noticed the lack of warmth beside him. He got up with a jolt, thoughts and scenarios running through his head on various ways John may have gotten injured in the dead of the night or may have relapsed or- Or was just getting up from bed.

Sherlock let out a silent sigh of relief. "John. You're awake."

"Yeah," he replied. "And bloody hungry. I'm off to the bathroom."

"Let me help you John," Sherlock said, jumping up and grabbing hold of John who tried his hardest to brush him off.

"Sherlock, I'm not paralyzed, thank god. I can use the bathroom all on my own. Now, didn't you agree to make food?"

As John slowly made his way to the bathroom, his flatmate examined him frowning and deep in thought. He knew that John was capable of most things himself, but soon, he would need assistance. And Sherlock had to be there for him.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson, despite Sherlock's volunteering, had made enough food for them to last a week, possibly more. He had just been preparing John's small breakfast when the man himself entered the kitchen. His face was tinged with pink and his expression was unusually stern, meaning he had slight trouble locating things in the bathroom. The realization of this fact induced a few mental images, causing Sherlock to stifle a smile.

"Right, John," he said, placing a plate in front of him. "Here is your meal. Not to worry, it is perfectly edible for Mrs. Hudson had prepared it. Then, of course, you need your medications."

"Aren't you eating Sherlock?" John asked, picking up his utensil and carefully guiding it to his mouth.

"Of course I am John. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Sherlock, just because I'm blind, doesn't mean I can't tell you're lying. You probably haven't eaten anything since I woke up. How can you take care of me when you can't even take care of yourself? Hmm?"

As much as Sherlock wanted to argue, John's logic as sound. If he were to be suddenly weakened, then John would refuse to care for himself and try to help Sherlock, which would result in a series of unfortunate events ending with a very sad John.

So, noisily, he made himself a plate and sat opposite of John, thinking angrily, _Problem: 1, Sherlock: 0_.

* * *

"What are you doing John?" Sherlock suddenly asked, not rising his gaze from his mold spores to see John heading to the bathroom.

"I'm taking a shower," he responded, hoisting his towel and clothing.

"A _shower_?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Yes, a _shower_. Something people who can't inhumanly stop themselves from smelling like shit tend to do," John retorted.

"You can't take a shower."

"And why the bloody hell not?"

He looked up from the microscope and slowly walked towards his friend. "You could possibly get shampoo in your eyes, causing high acidity and damaging your retinas further. You could drop your bar of soap, slip on it, fall and possibly hit your head. I have several more scenarios, and each of them are as likely as the fact Molly refuses to let me borrow her cat's hair. Because John, you can't see what you're doing because, as much as you are trying to deny it, you are _blind_ and you are _not _taking a shower."

His flatmate sighed and raised his hands in defeat. "Fine Sherlock. I'll take a bath instead." He sighed heavily. "Yeah, a nice long bath, with some massage oil and scented candles and a whole lot of relaxing."

Returning to his work, Sherlock smiled. _Evened the odds._

His moment only lasted a few short seconds when John called out, requesting Sherlock to find his bath products.

* * *

It was a little later when Sherlock heard John's vice from the bathroom. "Sherlock, were you joking about the shampoo thing?"

He smiled. "No John. I do not joke about- anything, really."

"Oh."

Sherlock cleared away his experiment, washed his hands and mentally counted down. _3, 2, 1..._

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, John?"

"Could you- could you um..." He knew John wouldn't be able to verbally admit what he needed, and Sherlock was feeling lenient o his feelings, considering the outburst earlier.

"I'll be right there, John."

Tentatively, he opened the bathroom door (earlier, he shouted at John for locking it, knowing that this situation would arise), and found John waiting for him, holding his particular brand of shampoo with his legs conveniently crossed.

Grabbing the bottle, he lathered it onto John's hair and began massaging it in. A soft sigh escaped John's lips. "Oh god Sherlock. Have you ever thought about becoming a masseuse?"

"And become the consulting masseuse?" he replied. "That doesn't sound quite as interesting."

"You're not even a real detective; it's just a title."

"And you're neither a captain nor doctor anymore, yet you keep those titles."

"I've earned them."

"And I haven't?"

The last comment earned him a chuckle. "Alright, you win; you always do."

"Nonsense, John," Sherlock retorted, "you have your moments."

After a few moments of silence Sherlock asked, "John, when you mentioned people not smelling like shit, did you perhaps mean that I never smell horrid?"

The question took John by surprise. "Well, um, after a case when we've been piling over dead bodies and running around London, you don't really smell that different than you usually do; even when you do take the occasional shower."

"And what _do _I smell like usually?"

"It's similar to the way you look."

Sherlock snickered. "I smell the way I look? Your way with words astounds me, John. Really, you rival Edgar Allen Poe with your poetry."

"Shut it Sherlock. Alright, let me think... It's pretty indescribable I'd say; soft and clear, with a hint of sweetness that makes it so alluring but it's covered by all these layers of bitter scents and-" Suddenly, John's face turned very pink and he abruptly stopped.

Sherlock, knowing fully well what happened, teased him by saying, "What's wrong, John? we were just getting to the good part."

"Could we just get to the part where you rinse out my hair?"

As Sherlock obliged with John's request, he couldn't help but think, _Point one for Sherlock. One step closer to my goal._

* * *

The next few days went by with John refusing to accept help and Sherlock finding clever schemes to give it to him anyway. No major developments were made, until the end of the week rolled around.

They were at Tesco's buying groceries, and John was trying to locate his favorite brand of jam. A fact that Sherlock had informed him he deleted, but in reality he knew exactly what brand John favored and exactly how he spread it on is toast and the way a small amount would magically find it's way onto his nose and how he looked trying to lick it off before giving up and wiping his face.

Yes, Sherlock found it hard to delete any information regarding John. But if his plan were to succeed, he had to feign ignorance.

"John, I will not be buying out the entire stock of jam. Just pick any out and let us leave," he groaned, watching John touching each can and trying to deduce them.

"Sherlock, it's _my_ bloody jam and I'll have whatever one I fancy. Are you sure you can't see the one with- Hang on, call Mycroft! Wait, I'll do it." He fumbled for his new phone, one Mycroft had specially ordered for him that was voice-activated specifically to his own voice. It also had a touch-screen, but that was for when he could actually _see_ the screen.

"Why are you calling Mycroft?"

"He probably has it in his file what my favorite jam is. Ah, here it is." Just as John opened his mouth to call Mycroft, Sherlock jumped into action by pretending to be surprised to find John's favorite brand.

"It's the last jar John, which is why I could not find it earlier," Sherlock explained, and although John was skeptical, he did not question the matter further.

When they had reached outside, Sherlock had refused to give John any of the bags and insisted that John walked behind. Though these rules angered John, he took a deep breath and followed through with them, albeit sulking. It was when Sherlock had grabbed John's hand to walk across the street did he snap.

"Sherlock" he shouted angrily, "I am not a three-year-old child that doesn't know how to manage their way around the world! I am perfectly capable on my own and don't need you holding my hand wherever I go! I know you are concerned about me, but I was in the bloody army, for god's sake! So just please, _back off_!"

And without another word, he stormed of by himself across the street... Just as a car came speeding down. It only took a second and a shout, but it was enough to save his best friend (and future lover)'s life. The duo found themselves on the other side of the road, holding each other and panting.

"John, are you okay?" Sherlock asked, checking him for any cuts or bruises.

"Yeah I'm fine," he replied offhandedly. "Oh god, I didn't even hear it coming. I'm so sorry Sherlock; just got all riled up when I can't even- Oh god, maybe I do need your help."

Satisfied that John was fine, Sherlock patted him awkwardly on the back. "No, I may or may not have been acting overly protective of you, and I apologize. There are things that you need my help with, and there are things that you may do yourself. Now, I will agree to 'back off' when you can do it yourself as long as you accept my help when you require it. Understood?"

"Alright. Let's do that."

And so, week one ended with a compromise.

* * *

**Woohoo! Fluff! Yay! Almost makes you forget the future angst I keep bringing up. Ha! Anyway, have a happy New Years, and please leave a review!**


	4. Chapter 4

Week two started off with a bang. More of a scream, really.

It was the middle of the night when Sherlock had heard it. He was given permission by John to stay up and examine phosphorescent genes within deceased fireflies and see if they could be reanimated, as he had been sleeping enough for the past few days. The moment the sound reached his ears, he rushed to the bedroom fearing the worst.

When he got there, he realized it might have been even worse than he thought.

John was lying on the bed, shaking and covered in cold sweat. One hand clutched his chest defensively while the other reached to the side of the bed instinctively trying to grab his gun, located upstairs.

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked, leaning closer and grabbing John's hand. "John?"

Through pants, John responded, "I'm- I'm fine Sherlock. Perfectly fine. Brilliantly fine. Just fine."

"John, I believe the excessive use of the word 'fine' does not correspond with if you actually _are_ feeling fine," his flatmate replied.

"Shut up Sherlock," he smiled. "So, um, how's your experiment going? Almost done?"

He took a moment to look back at his work, which had just started to ferment, meaning the possibility that it was beginning to glow. He looked back to his steadily relaxing friend, who was gripping his hand very tightly. "I have just finished," he lied, "though there is quite a bit of a mess remaining. Would you mind if I discussed my results with you?"

John shook his head, closing his eyes and leaning back into bed. "Please do."

And as Sherlock babbled on about the effects of yeast on biological liquids, he could feel John's hand slowly release itself but he did not let go.

* * *

The next morning, as John took his daily medications, Sherlock tried to discuss what had happened previously. "John, last night, did you-"

"Sherlock, I do not want to talk about anything that happened last night, okay?" John said, after draining his cup of water. "It was just a bad dream, and now it's all good. Don't worry; you promised you wouldn't if I said not to."

Sherlock had agreed, and did not want to break John's faith in him, so he did not press the matter further. But the suspicions were not going to leave him any time soon.

In fact, it would be that night when they would return.

* * *

John was convulsing. John was screaming. John was dreaming.

Sherlock was holding his hands down, attempting to stop any damage he may do to himself and his surroundings. It was extraordinarily lucky that Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sick sister that night, otherwise it would have been excruciatingly awkward to have to explain the situation to her.

John's pulse was unnaturally high, and Sherlock knew that of he did not wake soon, he might go into cardiac arrest. "John! John, you are at the flat! You are safe! Joh-" At that moment, Sherlock let go of John's arm and immediately the doctor's fist met the detective's face. It was then that John's eyes burst open.

"Sher- Sherlock? Oh god, Sherlock! Did- did I hurt you?" John's eyes were wide and filled with fear, and Sherlock knew he had to lie once again.

"No John. I am perfectly fine. Are you okay?"

John nodded. "Oh god, I'm- I'm so sorry Sherlock. It's just- Oh god. Sherlock, can you go and sleep in my room tonight?"

"Why? It would be best if-"

"Sherlock." John had regained that captain's composure, though his eyes were still shaking. "That is not a request."

So Sherlock grudgingly abandoned John, and although there were no more screams throughout the night, he knew John was hurting.

* * *

The next night, as John sat on his armchair reflecting over the events surrounding his attack on Sherlock, he found himself being ushered out of the chair and into his bedroom.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" he argued, as he was seated down onto his bed. "I thought I said you could conduct your experiment tonight!"

"I am," Sherlock said. "My experiment is the effects of music on the amount of nightmares you receive. I find that Mendelssohn's _Violin Concerto in E Minor_ often soothes me and I was curious as to whether or not it would have the same effect on you. Get ready for bed John; I will play you to sleep."

That night, John had the most restful sleep in years.

* * *

"Oi, Donovan! Got those reports for me?" Lestrade yelled to the detective sergeant, as he stood up from his chair and began to straighten his coat.

"Yes sir, got them right here," she responded, entering the office.

"Good; now I'm running late," he snatched the files and ran out, before doubling back and asking, "Hey, have you went to visit John yet?"

"No, sir." Word had spread around the office about John's condition, and although Sally did feel sympathetic to the doctor, the feeling wasn't mutual in her opinion.

"I'm going to see him now. You should come, since he mentioned you in our last visit."

"Mentioned _me_?"

"Yeah. He remembered everything that happened to him during the coma, and he wouldn't mind speaking with you. Let's see, he should be back from his check-up by now."As Greg headed out once again, she followed behind, calling out, "What about the- Sherlock? Would he want me there?"

Lestrade turned around, smiling. "If John doesn't mind, neither does he."

That was how Sally found herself drinking tea with the blind doctor in her not-enemy's flat. Sherlock and the DI were discussing a case in the main room while they sat in the kitchen. It was the most awkward experience of her life.

"So, um, John, how's the- um..." Oh god, she's making a fool of herself and they haven't even started the conversation yet.

John, however, understood completely. "It's getting better. I've so far gained 10% of my vision back, and they think it's going to keep increasing by 5% each week, so we're good. How are you, Sergeant? Having fun catching killers?"

She let out a mild chuckle, taking a sip of the tea. "You could say that. This tea is delicious; did Sherlock make it?"

"Oh Sherlock couldn't make anything this good, as hard as he might try. This was completely Mrs. Hudson's doing," he sighed. "But, I see you've started calling him Sherlock now."

Sally could feel herself getting flustered. "Um, well, yeah. I mean, he still is a freak, but since you were, y'know, _hospitalized_,he seems more like a human. So, I guess that upgraded his status from Freak."

John gave her one of his signature smiles. "Thank you. It might not look like it, but it really means a lot to him; he really does care about what people think of him, and I'm glad you've seen reason."

The two remained silent for a moment, until John spoke again. "So, how's Anderson; ditched him yet?"

Before she could respond, Lestrade walked in and seated himself beside John. "Mind if I join in?"

"You already have!" Sherlock shouted as he lay on the couch, deep in thought. "And now they can't get rid of you."

John laughed. "It's alright; I didn't mind it anyway. How are you Greg? And where's Mycroft; would've expected him sooner."

"I'm as fine as can be. And Mycroft's in Sweden on some official government business; he wanted to 'express his sympathies and wish you a speedy recovery' as he put it. He also had a care package, but it was mostly sweets and, well, we kinda finished it before giving it to you."

"Oh god; sounds like a wild night," John joked.

"It was. What we did was-"

"None of us want that information, Greg! Please keep it to yourself!"

Lestrade laughed heartily, and Sally realized it was the happiest she'd seen him in a long time. She also realized that she was laughing along with the two friends, at their mild jokes and Sherlock's rude comments.

The moment was ended by Sherlock, after deducing the killer they were after, and as they left, Sally found a name to give the feeling she had. _Home_.

And thus, week two consisted of violin songs and ended with laughter.

* * *

**Happy New Years! Hope you all have a wonderful 2013, and may it be filled with the mythical season 3!**


	5. Chapter 5

Week three started with a swear.

Unbeknownst to Sherlock, John was completely aware of the 'secret' plan to seduce him, but did not exactly mind it as much as he thought he would. However, he realized a bit too late that the plan had taken his mind off of taking care of himself.

John had heard Sherlock's shout from the kitchen and immediately went to check up on the detective. "Sherlock, you alright?" he asked, tentatively making his way.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock responded. "Just a minor inconvenience; nothing that requires your attention."

But John went on, feeling for Sherlock's arm and finding soft tender flesh there instead; when he touched it, he did not miss the small wince made by Sherlock. Combine with the smell of the kitchen, the wheels clicked into place. "Sherlock, you got yourself _burnt_? What were you doing?"

"I was just preparing a light lunch for you, and may have not been entirely aware of the location of the frying oil," he said, trying to move his arm but John gripped it tight, sighing heavily.

"You're coming with me, and we're putting some cream on this right now." As soon as those words left his mouth, he felt Sherlock coming up with a retort. "What now?"

"I may have used that up in an experiment recently. I apologize; I did not think it was needed anymore."

As much as he wanted to explode with anger, John spoke in a controlled tone, as if to a small child. "It's okay Sherlock, we'll ask Mrs. Hudson for some. In the meantime, let's slab some toothpaste on it."

Walking to the bathroom with Sherlock, John felt a stab of nostalgia. He could almost see the pained yet annoyed expression on his flatmate's face, and the smile on his own. But once they reached their destination, the darkness returned almost anew.

But John would keep fighting; fighting for Sherlock as he was fighting for him.

* * *

"Oh, John!," Molly said. "You're- um, where's Sherlock?"

"He went to go get some stuff from a medical supplies closet," he replied, facing the general direction of her voice. "Probably'll be back soon. What's going on with you?"

"I was- uh, just getting my, uh, lunch. I left it here," she began rustling something that sounded like a plastic bag. "Gotta go and meet up with Joe. It was nice seeing you up and about."

"You too Molly. Say hi to Dimmock for me."

As soon as he heard the door close, he returned to his quiet reprise; waiting for Sherlock to come light the way. _Of course_, he thought as he heard Sherlock enter complaining loudly about the lack of bottled carbon monoxide in the storage and how they'd need to sneak into the main office, _maybe I'm his light instead_.

* * *

John was listening to the radio when he heard light footsteps coming up the stairs and into the flat. He had recognized Mrs. Hudson's walk, and knew that Greg and Sally usually announced their arrivals by calling ahead. So he let out a hesitant "Hello?" and awaited a response.

The identity of the person responding surprised him. "Hello Doctor."

"Anthea? What are you doing here; is Mycroft back?"

He heard her go in the direction of the couch and the soft noise of it settling under her weight. "No, not yet. The situation had taken a drastic turn and has kept him from returning. I am here on my own free will."

John scoffed. "Really? I mean, I appreciate the gesture but we weren't that great of friends. Hell, we've only met twice and the second time, you forgot who I was."

"I thought it would be best to kindle a friendship now; here is my offering of peace." Small sounds came from her direction, as if she was unzipping a purse and placing an item beside her. "It's this radio drama that I found very entertaining, called _Cabin Pressure _and I thought, seeing as you can't watch any television, you'd enjoy it. It's all the released seasons."

"Oh." He wasn't expecting this at all. "Um, thanks I guess."

There was an awkward silence, in which only small thumps were heard from upstairs, a large crack and an "I'm fine John; no acid spill this time!"

"I'll take your word for it, but don't expect me to call Mrs. Hudson again!" he called back, a smile creeping on his face.

"What's going on up there?" Anthea asked; he could almost hear her befuddled expression, but knew that she must've been used to it by now.

"Botany experiment. Don't ask. Forgotten half of it already."

"He did lots of these when I started working for Mr. Holmes, though I believe they've decreased in danger since then," she said letting out a small laugh, at which point her Blackberry buzzed. "Oh shit. I've got to go. Nice seeing you John."

"You too."

As John contemplated on whether or not calling his landlady to help set the gift up, another loud crack came from upstairs. Sighing, he grabbed his cane and wondered when he would ever get a break. Then he wondered whether he would ever need one.

* * *

He knew he should have realized something was wrong earlier, he thought, as he heard a loud thud coming from the main room where Sherlock had went moments earlier to retrieve the violin (which John thought he did not need anymore but the simple gesture had slowly become a ritual).

"Sherlock!" he shouted, rushing out of bed to assist his fallen flatmate whose location he had assessed from the small groans coming from the general direction of the floor. He hoisted him awkwardly and staggered to the bedroom, talking along the way.

"Sherlock, what happened?"

"I apologize John," he replied; a small statement which he had been repeating a lot recently. "I must have lost my balance. But I am perfectly alright now."

"Like hell you are. You are the most balanced person I know, so I can tell you didn't _just_ trip over yourself. When's the last time you've slept? Ate?"

After a few seconds, Sherlock said, "One to two weeks ago."

"Jesus, Sherlock, no wonder you've been acting all uncoordinated lately. Why the bloody hell haven't you been eating and sleeping?"

"I've been preoccupied with experiments and taking care of you."

A small jolt of warmth ran through John. "But you can't just run on adrenaline. Take care of yourself Sherlock and you'll be doing wonders to my own health. Can you promise me that you'll eat and sleep at least every other time I do?"

"An adequate compromise, I believe," he murmured as John tossed him onto the bed, placing the comforter over him. "Goodnight John."

"'Night Sherlock."

Week three ended with another compromise. And some sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

By week four, Sherlock knew John was starting to succumb to his attraction to him. The problem was, the blindness was getting in the way. John was slowly loosing himself in the dark, and Sherlock knew it was up to him to save him.

Sherlock realized this late one night, after finishing a minor experiment and retreating to retire with John when he sneaked unintentionally to the door and saw the ex-captain at his most vulnerable.

He was clutching his dog tags, fingers delicately sliding over the engravings as his entire hand shook. His face was staring straight at Sherlock but the gaze in his eyes were far away and didn't quite process what he was seeing though the doctors had confirmed he had 20% of his vision and should have been able to tell if something was in front of him or not.

The detective slowly walked back to the kitchen and awaited for John to call him to bed.

For the first time during this whole ordeal, Sherlock was unsure of what to do next.

* * *

The thought suddenly occurred in the afternoon of the following day, under the influence of Tchaikovsky. The idea was so impressive, he knew he must immediately act upon it. He threw his violin aside and ran to the bedroom.

John was once again on the bed, but he had his laptop in hand and was listening to the radio drama he had recently received and had a much more relaxed posture than the previous night. At the sound of the door opening, he moved the laptop aside and stood attentively. "Sherlock, what-"

But before he could utter out any other words, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and dragged him down the stairs and out the door.

"Sherlock where the hell are we going? I haven't even gotten my glasses, for god's sake!"

"No time John! Besides, there is little to no sunlight out due to the extremity of the cloud cover. You will be completely fine." John wanted to protest further, but knew that there was no reasoning with Sherlock when he was on with something and instead kept quiet and tried to keep up.

Finally, they arrived at their destination: Regent's Park. Sherlock plopped John down on a bench in front of a few families and individuals and seated himself beside him. "Look ahead John and what do you see?"

"Nothing Sherlock. I don't see a bloody thing," he groaned. Sherlock winced slightly at his frustration but knew that in a few moments it would all be worth it.

"Then I shall tell you. To your left is a single father with two children under the age of ten, the youngest going around and chasing a small squirrel carrying at least five acorns though there may be more. The father is still smiling, though financial problems keep him worried for his children but he has recently begun dating a man with an immaculate fortune who may be able to help him secure them a future.

To your right, an old couple married for fifty years is jogging by. The man has recently developed lung cancer and the woman has been told by the doctors that he would not last long. You may have been able to tell otherwise, but I believe the doctors were right. They nonetheless seem to be enjoying themselves.

"Straight across from our bench, a young woman, collage student majoring in art- bless her-, is on her laptop using a small tablet device to draw, what I believe is us. She is most likely a fan and is now waving at us- wave back John- and will come over here to show us the picture when she is done.

"Now John," he said, turning to the man, "do you see?"

"Sherlock... Is it raining?"

Sherlock was confused by the question, but one look at John explained everything and he cursed himself for not noticing it earlier. John was crying but at the same time, a small smile was on his face. The best course of action was to play along.

"Yes it is," he said, hand subconsciously creeping closer to John's. "The father has pulled up his umbrella and is ushering the young child inside while the eldest is packing their picnic up. The old couple has jogged by, but I suspect they were unprepared and have rushed to a small canopy. The art student is unprepared as well and is mentally cursing the weather for causing an interruption in her work."

Suddenly, he realized that his hand was grasping the doctor's tightly. He turned to his side and found John doing the same. "Thank you," John whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks. They remained so for several minutes, though it felt like an eternity, until they regained the ability to move and went back to the flat.

Sherlock felt positively delighted with his progress with John. There was one last thing he needed to do.

* * *

The final step in his plan came to play one night after the park incident. Sherlock assisted John into a suit which the latter man would have described as 'posh', before going into a cab to an undisclosed location.

"Where are we going Sherlock? Is this for a case or an experiment?" John asked, rightfully suspicious of Sherlock's motive.

"A surprise. Not to worry, my intentions are pure tonight."

"They should be like that _every_ night."

After a lot of walking, making sure John's ears were covered, some talking to annoying bureaucrats, and more walking, they finally arrived at their destination.

"Okay John. Make yourself comfortable. We are in a private box at the Barbican Hall, where the London Symphony Orchestra will soon be playing."

John's eyes widened as he gasped. "Oh god, how did you get a private box to a sold-out show? Wait, did it have anything to do with the case we took last month?"

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at John's positive reaction. "It does. They should be starting soon; not to worry, I will inform you of what they are playing throughout the night."

And they sat there, laughing and smiling through Beethoven's, Mozart's, and a Rachmaninoff, when they played a piece no one in the hall recognized, save Sherlock. It was beautiful, with soft melodies and sharp moments and rough noises interrupting the smooth flow. John was hooked with the first note and listened contently throughout, until it ended.

"What was that? It was... brilliant."

Sherlock took a deep breath and spoke. "It was a piece I composed myself, titled simply _John _because it describes you perfectly and-" _And it fits you so well with your simple demeanor but secret uniqueness and I just couldn't help myself seeing you hurt alone in the dark so that's why I wrote this for you. Because I love you John._

But Sherlock never said any of that, because the words died in his throat the moment John's lips met his. He could feel John's tears streak down his face and onto Sherlock's and could see how sweet and amazing John smelled and how wonderful it was to kiss him and how the feeling inside him erupted and how everything in the world was right for one moment.

Week four ended with a kiss.

* * *

Lestrade looked at the body and back to the card, shaking his head. "This is wrong on so many levels."

"I agree sir," said Donovan, appearing beside him. "It makes no sense; just something a demented monster would do."

Lestrade didn't respond, and instead pocketed the card and turned away. The body in the shower had been repeatedly stabbed, with no evidence to suggest who did it. They were going to examine the body but he knew there would be nothing of value on it. No, this had turned into an evil and sadistic game.

Because on the card, which was delivered to Scotland Yard an hour before the call came, was the image of Norman Bates.

So week four ended with not only a kiss, but a kill as well.

* * *

**We are entering the case, which by far is my favorite part. Besides this chapter. But before I go, quick question: there is a scene in the last chapter that I left out, where Irene Adler visits John as Sherlock's sleeping. I wasn't sure whether or not to put it in, so I didn't. But if you would be interested in reading it, I might post it as a separate oneshot or add it at the end of the story. Please let me know!**


	7. Chapter 7

**If you were interested in the Irene Adler oneshot, I released it as a separate story titled "Deleted Scene". Now enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

Sherlock realized he liked kissing John quite a lot. There were many occasions and excuses to do so as well, such as _Look-John-I-Ate-Food_ or _I-Know-How-Many-Fingers-You're-Holding-Sherlock _which led to lots of making out. There had also been an increased amount of hand-holding and closeness with each other, and for once Sherlock did not mind the warmth of another human being. Especially if that human being was John.

However, their moments were cut short.

The first day of week five, while they were having their _It's-Breakfast-And-Nothing-Exploded-Yet _kiss, Sherlock's phone trilled.

"Go and pick it up," John ordered, as Sherlock leaned in for another kiss.

"It can wait. Probably dull anyway," he murmured, reaching for John's lips with his own when they were interrupted by the doctor's finger.

"It might be important," John reasoned. "Go."

Groaning, he reluctantly moved away from John and to the table where the mobile was. "This better be good, Lestrade. I was in the middle of something very interesting and amazing and if this isn't important then-"

"_Sherlock, we have a body,_" Lestrade replied, with a strange amount of uncertainty.

"What about it?" Sherlock replied, intrigued.

After a long, deep sigh, the response came. "..._It's him; he's back._"

No elaboration was required. Sherlock knew from his tone that there was only one person that could strike fear into Lestrade like that. "Text me the address."

As he hung up, he turned back to John, who's gaze had turned sharp and his face into a look of concern. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Sherlock knew that John would demand to accompany him if he knew the exact details, but he did feel that John was strong enough to understand that he could not come along. "John, there's been a murder."

"Yes, and?"

"And it's connected with Moriarty."

John's eyes widened and his grip on the chair tightened in anger. "Go ahead. I'll stay here."

"John," Sherlock said, going up to him and gripping him by the shoulders. "I promise that I will return as swiftly as possible, and I will inform you of every single detail when I do."

"Just go and catch that bastard."

As Sherlock put on his coat and walked out the door, he felt a twinge of pain being separated from John, but knew that it would be worth it once he saw the smug face of the Irishman behind bars forever.

* * *

"Victim's name is Hannah Ramone," Lestrade explained, leading Sherlock into the small house and down the long hallway. "Thirty-four years old, housewife. Her husband and kids were at the beach for the whole day and when they returned they found her."

They took a sharp turn and went into the bedroom, where forensics were still taking pictures. The room was small, with a large bed in the center and a laptop placed upon it. In front of the bed, a woman's body lay shriveled up with her face in an expression of gruesome pain and her neck seemed torn to shreds. In her hand was a book, titled-

"_Jack the Ripper._ Yes, the wounds on the body do seem consistent with the ones found on the real Jack the Ripper's victims, but I do not see how that is relevant-"

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, shaking his head, "look at the dresser."

Sherlock did just that. The dresser was a casual one found at most furniture stores, with none of the items on top disarrayed. On the mirror, however, it was written in blood- the victim's possibly- the words, _Bring the Psycho; I'll rip his sanity apart! _There was a smiley face on the 'O'.

"About two days ago, we received a card with the picture of Norman Bates on it; Norman Bates being the antagonist in the movie _Psycho. _An hour later, we found the body of Janet Clarkson, psychology student at a local uni, in her shower stabbed multiple times mimicking the famous scene from the movie.

"Today, we were mailed the very book in her hands, Jack the Ripper. The book was signed by- by Jim Moriarty. And now he wants you in the game."

Sherlock made no response, instead crouched over the body, using latex gloves to move it around and examine every angle. "The cuts on her neck were made while she was alive, and was simultaneously strangled. The killer came under a disguise, possibly an electrician or plumber due to the markings of a large box on the corner here.

"They used small, ordinary kitchen knives to do their dirty work, and made sure as to not let one drop spill until she died using a large mat- most likely plastic- to cover the scene up. Has anyone touched the laptop yet?"

"Yeah, and we found several different sets of fingerprints on it; we're checking them now," said Lestrade, watching Sherlock replace his now bloodied gloves with new ones and rush to the computer.

"None of them will be the killer's," Sherlock said.

"Yes, but according to the open document..." The DI went up to the computer and read the words on the screen. "'_Which one is the next player?_"

Sighing, Sherlock removed his gloves and began walking out of the house. "Right. Text me when you've found them. I can't keep John waiting any longer."

* * *

As Sherlock unwillingly took part in Moriarty's game, John did something similar in a lesser caliber.

He had just been about to indulge in his new favorite drama when he heard the door to the flat open. "Hello, Doctor Watson."

Though John was feeling annoyed like hell, he smiled politely. "Mycroft. I see you're back from Sweden."

"Yes. The crisis has been averted, as they say. Mind if I make myself a cup of tea?"

"Not at all."

As Mycroft stepped into the kitchen, he continued to speak. "So, John, how have you and Sherlock been getting along?"

"Fairly well. He's just gone off on a case, but I'm sure you knew that."

"Yes. Exactly like how I know you two have become... intimate."

John could not help but laugh at Mycroft's choice of words. "Well, we've been kissing a lot, but I'm not sure if that is particularly intimacy or not."

"Yes, well, in Sherlock's case it might be as intimate as he will ever be."

"Right, so is this the part where you give the 'break him and I'll break you' speech? Because I'm ready for it."

He could practically hear Mycroft smirking as he sat down opposite him. "Quite the contrary. I wanted to inform you that I truly believe you are the right man for him. I know my brother is unruly and unsophisticated, acting childish and moody whenever it suits him, but you can handle that and you bring out the best in him. You are most certainly the making of my brother, Doctor. For that, I thank you."

John felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. "Oh, um... Wow, Mycroft. I don't know what to say, really."

"If it helps, I brought along with me the care basket I would like to have given you earlier had Gregory and I not been, well, you wouldn't want to know." After a few rustles and one or two clinks, he heard Mycroft say, "Well, it is time I take my leave. I hope to see you soon John."

"You too. Take care of yourself."

As he heard Mycroft leave, he realized he had forgotten to ask whether he knew Moriarty was at large once again.

* * *

"John!" Sherlock ran up the steps to his flat, and saw John, sitting in his armchair, eating a cupcake and listening to _Cabin Pressure_. "Where did the cupcakes come from?"

"Mycroft," he answered after swallowing. "Did you find him?"

Sherlock went into a quick explanation of the events that took place with Lestrade at the victim's house. "Moriarty is starting another game John. The puzzles are getting harder and this time, I- I am-" He took a deep breath. "I am afraid he will try and kidnap you again. And I don't know how I will save you."

He saw John's face become emotionless, as he put down the laptop and cupcake, walk over to Sherlock, and place a chocolaty kiss on his forehead. "Then let's find him before he takes me again."

It was a promise.


	8. Chapter 8

It was early morning once again when Lestrade called Sherlock. This time he and John were well into breakfast, discussing the possibility that the victims may have been connected to Moriarty.

"Think about it Sherlock. Maybe that's how he picked them to be killed," John was saying.

"No, not his style," Sherlock said, pushing his tea aside. "He picks random, innocent people- or, as innocent as it gets- who have nothing to do with the situation. The text Lestrade sent me last night, however, does hold a clue. Out of the five suspected victims, two were out of the country, one was deceased, one was sculpted to look like a fingerprint and one was of a child. Lestrade has taken the child into custody and has officers at London-Heathrow to pick the other ones up. I believe that-"

But before he could finish his deductions, his phone rang. Without the incentive of John he picked it up after the first bell. "Lestrade, what happened?"

"_You know the fingerprints of the dead guy?_"_  
_

"Yes, why?"

"_Well apparently he wasn't dead then. But now he definitely is. Come to the station; you need to see this._"

Once Sherlock hung up, he saw the look of concern on John's face. "John, it would seem all of our presumptions have been proven false. Lestrade has called me to the Yard; the body of the dead man has been found."

John scoffed, taking a small sip of his drink. "Should've expected Moriarty to do something completely insane. Good luck."

"I don't need luck John, when I have skill. I will be back as soon as possible." One _kiss-that-was-meant-to-be-quicker-but-wasn't_ later, Sherlock was out the door leaving a softly sighing doctor behind.

* * *

Once he arrived at the Yard, Sherlock understood why Lestrade did not bother to explain the situation over the phone. In the conference room of NSY, there lay a multitude of packages with one large severed human head. That was blue.

"What do you make of this, Sherlock?" asked Donovan. "I mean, why the hell is it blue?"

He leaned up to the head, examining it carefully, as Lestrade pulled something out of his pocket. "Because it's been drained of blood, right?"

"Correct Lestrade. And from the angle of these-"

"It was hung upside down, wasn't it?" the DI said exasperatedly.

Sherlock turned to the man, head cocked in confusion. "How could you tell? You aren't _that_ intelligent."

"No, but I watch enough American telly," he said, throwing a DVD on the table, titled _Dexter: The First Season_. "It's a crime show, sort of. The villain hung his victims upside down and drained their blood, then cut them neatly into pieces. Inside this is a note, with only the victim's name and a message for you."

He handed the note to Sherlock. Written in neat handwriting was, _**W**illiam **J**efferson **D**avis. Got it yet Sherly?_

The wheels in his brain began turning; the pieces of the puzzle forming. "Lestrade, what were the names of the previous two victims?"

"Um, Janet Clarkson and Hannah Ramone," he replied. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"The first letter of the names on the note are capitalized: 'WJD'. The victims, in order, were Janet, Hannah and William, or-" The pieces clicked into place, forming a horrifying picture. He ran out the door without another word, faster than anyone had ever seen him.

"Sally stay here!" Lestrade said, running after him. Because they both figured it out.

_JHW. **J**ohn **H**amish **W**atson._

* * *

John didn't how he ended up being chained chained to a wall in a place that smelt horribly of whiskey and rot. The last thing he remembered was coming out of the bathroom and having something pressed on his nose. The shackles were injuring his wrists and ankles, but he kept his eyes firmly shut in fear of the bright light that may have been emitting from the ceiling.

Suddenly, he heard a voice that made his entire body stand up on edge. "Wakey wakey Johnny boy! It's alright; we took one of those special light bulbs from your flat and placed them here. Go ahead and open your eyes."

Instead of complying, he spat as hard as he could in the direction of the voice.

"Even blind, you make the most wonderful pet, don't you?" Moriarty laughed. "Well, I have to leave now; not to worry though. If all goes according to plan I'll be back before you know it!"

Even as he heard a door close, John kept his eyes closed and silently prayed.

* * *

Lestrade and Sherlock reached the flat together and ran up the stairs, fearing the worst. When they opened the door, they were greeted to an unexpected sight. A surely man, with clear military background and an evil expression stood before them pointing a gun. Immediately the entering men's hands went into the air.

"Mr. Holmes, I believe you are expecting a call, weren't you?" he smirked, tossing a small mobile to Sherlock. "Just hit call. As for you Inspector, just sit down and keep your hands where I can see you."

As Lestrade moved, Sherlock obliged with the instructions and put the call on speakerphone for the DI's sake. After a few rings, "_Hello Sherlock! Been a long time, hasn't it?_"

"Moriarty," Sherlock said, the bitterness figuratively dripping out. "What have you done with John?"

"_Oh, he's fine, not to worry. I couldn't hurt a single hair on his precious little head even if I wanted to._"

His fists clenched at these words. "This was between you and me, wasn't it? And yet you brought him in anyway."

"_Well, you didn't expect me to just sit still when your brother broke the rules, did you? Or did you not know that the Iceman had went out of his way to kidnap me only to release me soon after?_" A high pitched laugh followed. "_Not to worry, I've got a special punishment planned for him._"

"What have you done to him?" Sherlock could not believe the note of concern in his voice.

"_Nothing yet. He's just tied up and knocked out. Literally. If you don't believe me, see so for yourself._"

A second later, the phone trilled with the arrival of a picture, showing Mycroft at the Diogenes. His head was limp and slightly coated with dirt and blood, dripping down to his once-pristine suit.

"_I've also got one for Johnny too; thought it might please you._" Another area of the Diogenes, where John was chained to a wall with rusty old cuffs, though they seemed to be newly attached.

Once Sherlock had regained his voice, he said, "So far, this has all been a game. What's this round then?"

"_Glad you asked. Originally, my plan was to kill John Hannibal-style, like the beautiful movie. But, when I saw how absolutely _precious _he looked, all blind and defenseless, I changed my plan. What your dear brother didn't plan was that when he was trying to break into me, I was breaking into him. And now, I've found these delightful keycodes to strategically placed nuclear warheads, each aimed from a different country to another one._

"_So, here's my proposition. Either I start World War Three, or... I get to keep John for a month._"

Sherlock had no response other than, "What?"

"_It's simple. John is such a beautiful creature, and it's only for a month. Unless, you really _want_ to see the world torn in shambles for your love. You have ten seconds to decide. If not, Sebastian there shoots your detective friend, and I set off the warheads _and _get John. Your time starts now!_"

The world seemed to slow down. He couldn't have John at the mercy of his one true enemy, yet he knew it was a horrible decision to choose to destroy the world. But it was John. The John that that belonged to him. The John who he belonged to. It was an impossible choice. But he had only five seconds left.

"_Three seconds Sherly. Two seconds. One and..._"

"I choose-"

_BANG!_


	9. Chapter 9

There was a dreaded sound of silence. Lestrade, who had been tensed to know Mycroft was injured, had jumped up at the sound of the bang and was looking at the phone. Moran had left his gun loosely at his side. No one moved.

Out of nowhere, Sally Donovan appeared and tackled the gunman to the ground while cuffing his hands. "You're under arrest, you dirty motherfucker!"

For a few seconds, all the two men could do was stare, until Lestrade regained his voice. "Donovan, I told you to stay at the Yard!"

She devilishly smiled in response. "If I did that, sir, both of you would've been dead by now."

"How the hell did you even get in?"

"The fire escape," Sherlock responded, as Sally nodded.

"Yeah. What the hell was that bang though?"

Lestrade's eyes widened. "It wasn't you? Oh god, what if Moriarty- what if Mycroft- and he was already injured! Oh god..." He collapse onto the couch, holding his forehead with his entire body shaking. Sherlock just stood there, staring at the phone unable to comprehend what could have happened.

Suddenly, the phone cackled to life, causing everyone's hearts to skip a beat at the sound of the voice. "_You can never keep a Holmes down for long, am I right dear brother?_"

"Mycroft!" both Sherlock and Greg simultaneously shouted. Greg ran up to Sherlock and snatched the phone out of his hands. "Mycroft, are you alright?"

"_Hello Gregory. I am fine, just a little hurt, but we have no time to waste; Moriarty has escaped. See if you can get any information out of Moran._"

Sally tuned to the man in question. "With pleasure."

* * *

Mycroft hung up and pocketed the phone, then caught the handgun one of his officers tossed to him after they apprehended it from the consulting criminal's men. "Thank you, Roger. Everyone, move out!"

It was one of the few times all of his MI6 training rushed back to him, and he wondered whether this was how John felt whenever he was with Sherlock. If they got out of this alive, he would be sure to ask.

* * *

John was almost unconscious when he heard the door open, but that only brought on an adrenaline rush and he practically snarled at the entering man.

"Really, is that how you treat your rescuer?" Anthea replied, causing John to sigh with relief.

"Oh god. You really area goddess, aren't you?" he said as she began unbinding his shackles. "Thank you so much."

"We've got to get out of here; Moriarty could be-" but the rest of her sentence was muffled screams. John tensed as he heard footsteps approaching.

"Oh look at you," said Moriarty, in a sinister tone, "all strong and feisty. I wouldn't mind taking you along with me."

"Get your fucking hands off of me, you son of a bitch!" was all that was heard before someone covered her mouth again. As she did, he felt a heavy yet familiar weight slip into his pocket.

Moriarty laughed. "If you say so. Just remember; what I don't get, I usually kill." He drew out the last syllable, causing John to snap. He reached for the gun Anthea placed in his pocket and pointed it at the voice.

"Let her go." He took off the safety as Moriarty laughed again.

"Or what, Johnny? You'll shoot me, when you can't even see?" he could hear the evil smirk. "Go ahead and try."

John opened his eyes and pulled the trigger.

* * *

At Baker Street, Sally was using desperate means and negotiation tactics to weasel the location of Moriarty out of Moran.

"If you help us," she said, leaning closer to his chair where he was bound, "we can possibly reduce your sentence, and protect you from the rest of his men. Just help us out for as long as we need it and you'll be home free." She slapped him for a third time. "Understood?"

As she did this, Lestrade and Sherlock stood by the door waiting anxiously.

"Is she allowed to do that?" Sherlock asked, genuinely interested.

"When the life of civilians is threatened, drastic measures and negotiations with known criminals is allowed under strict observation. But we did get permission from the British Government himself, so I guess we're good."

Donovan appeared before them. "Says he'll be planning to get John out and use him as a hostage. You two go; I'll take him to the Yard and see if we'll need him later."

Lestrade sighed. "Sergeant, if I wasn't gay-"

"And if _I_ wasn't gay," she retorted, smiling.

"Oh. Um, right. Let's go Sherlock!"

* * *

After copious amounts of speeding and worry, they arrived at the Diogenes. Sherlock sled Greg into the room where he suspected John was. The door was closed, and as Sherlock reached to open it, he faltered. _What if John- what if he-_

Seeing his fear, the DI put a comforting hand on the detective's shoulder, and opened the door for him.

They were greeted to a sight neither one of them wanted to see more. Mycroft's agents cuffing and handling the criminals, with the body of their ringleader on the floor, a bullet through his heart. Greg rushed to a bloodied Mycroft and they didn't wait to start snogging immediately.

Anthea stepped aside from John, who was looking straight at Sherlock smiling widely.

Sherlock looked at him. "You're safe."

"I'm safe," he repeated.

"You- you killed Moriarty."

"I killed Moriarty."

For a second, neither one of them moved. Then Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer and pulled John into a tight embrace much like the one after he was discharged from the hospital. Except this time he may have been crying as well.

"John, before we continue I believe we may need to separate Lestrade and my brother before they begin to shag each other right in front of us."

The doctor laughed. "I'm right behind you."

* * *

**Thank you for reading. The epilogue will be short and sweet, and hopefully out either tonight or tomorrow.**


	10. Chapter 10

"Come on Sherlock, or we'll be late to the party!" John called from the bathroom as he put on his suit, one gifted from Mycroft.

Sherlock was smiling widely but groaned. "It's my birthday John; I don't think they'll start without us."

Stepping out of the bathroom, John leaned up to Sherlock to give him a small kiss. "We almost missed New Years."

Sherlock placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. "It was your fault John."

"It's actually your fault for looking so damn kissable in a suit," John smirked. "I remember the week where you wore nothing but your purple shirt and silk."

"That was your first week of sight and I wanted you to be comfortable," he replied, following John and watching as he straightened his bow tie.

"It was hell of a lot more than comfortable." He turned to face Sherlock, still grinning. "Ready?"

"Whenever you are." He took John's arm and crossed it with his, as they walked down the stairs both glowing with joy. Once they reached the bottom, he turned to him and said, once again, "I love you."

John smiled. "I know. And I love you too."

Their small moment was interrupted by an angry text from Mycroft ordering them to come. They ignored it, being very busy.

* * *

**Yes, that was a 221b.**

**Thank you all for reading; it was a pleasure to write for all you people who reviewed/favorited/followed. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did!**

**- Mylia**


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